Aftermath
by lilyofthevalley2
Summary: In the aftermath of the Loki incident, a British civil servant meets with the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D and discusses what to do about the superhero issue. Some spoilers for Avengers. Oneshot.


**AN:** Written for Cat. Also, to those who are have added "Healing" to their story update alert list, it's currently under revision and should be updated within a month. Thank you for your patience!

While the attention of the world is focused on the meeting between the American president and the prime minister, the real work of relations between the two countries gets done at a small pub in Dartford. Mycroft is not terribly fond of such establishments, but this particular pub has a long and illustrious history of being a meeting place for those who do the real work of government. And one must, after all, be respectful of traditions.

He arrives first, as he always does, taking a seat in a far back booth, his back to the door. An arrogant position, some would say, but Mycroft has several of his own people sprinkled through the pub to insure there will be no untoward incidents; watching the door for himself would be superfluous. At exactly the moment Mycroft's pocket watch clicks to six o'clock, a dark-skinned man with an eyepatch slides into the bench across from him. Skipping over the formalities of standing and shaking hands, but then again, he's never been one for tradition. He reminded Mycroft somewhat of his brother that way. "Director Fury. So good to see you again."

Fury nods briskly, almost brusque. "You too, Mr. Holmes. I take it you've already been apprised of the incident in New York."

"Naturally." Mycroft keeps himself apprised of events both major and minor in key players throughout the world. He hardly would have missed such a spectacular event in one of the more powerful (and meddlesome) countries at the moment. "I must admit, events turned out more...satisfactory than I might have anticipated."

Fury snorts, and despite the facade he chooses to present, it's obvious to the barest observer that he's concealing grief and weariness. Another way he reminds Mycroft of Sherlock-the man cares far too much. "We were very fortunate, this time," he admits. Mycroft smiles thinly, the expression humorless. The incident with Loki could have been a worldwide disaster all too easily, and while Mycroft was not without resources to respond to an alien invasion (though the Torchwood project had been, to say the least, of mixed results), he had to admit the American team had performed admirably.

"Fortune is the something we create for ourselves, I've found," Mycroft observed. "Your decision to continue with the Avengers Initiative was...unorthodox, but ultimately effective." Mycroft had read the team's files, naturally, and they were not entirely promising. Barton was reliable enough, if no genius, and Rodgers was both utterly loyal and suitable for command. The rest ranged from moderately untrustworthy to a greater threat to allies than to foes, in Mycroft's book. And once, when Sherlock was being particularly irritating, Mycroft had considered locking him and Mr. Stark-whom Mycroft had met once and thoroughly disliked-in a room for two days. It would be a sort of experiment to see whether they killed each other or solved all of the world's problems out of boredom. Probably the former.

But Mycroft digressed. The point was, the entire 'Avengers Initiative' was doomed from the start by being based on the ability of a team of incompatible personalities and loose cannons to work together for a common goal. It was inevitable that it would fail. Which was why Mycroft himself had been a proponent of the decision to bomb New York City to contain the aliens. It was a difficult choice, but ultimately the one which would have the best chance of success for the lowest loss of life. Yet somehow, the so-called 'Avengers' had worked together quite successfully.

Mycroft did so dislike being wrong.

"You don't approve," Fury observed-more a statement than a question.

Mycroft smiled again. "Her Majesty's government has no official position on the issue of 'super-powered humans'." Or errant pagan deities, for that matter. There was a matter that was bound to give the Archbishop of Canterbury a headache.

Fury shot him a flat, irritated look. "Don't bother playing games with me, Mr. Holmes. I'm well aware of the extent of your involvement in politics here. Her majesty's government does basically what you tell it to, and we both know it."

Ah, Americans. They did take 'blunt' to an art form-and that was saying something, comfing from a Holmes. Mycroft inclined his head slightly, and nodded slightly to the bartender, who brought them two beers. Not quite as good as the brandy Mycroft drank at home, but certainly better than the ghastly so-called beer Americans drank. After he left, Mycroft made a show of taking out his small, leather-bound book and glancing at it, as if checking some fact, before setting it down on the table. "The government is concerned about the threat these powers may represent to its interests. In particular, the fact that several of the team members are, at best, unpredictable. While Her Majesty's government is grateful to the, as you so poetically call them, 'Avengers', it is also concerned that they may present a significant threat to the stability and peace of the world."

Fury leaned forward slightly, and looked at Mycroft levelly. "I think you, of all people, are aware that many of the most useful resources are unpredictable at times. That doesn't make them any less of an asset."

Mycroft winced slightly. That was not entirely unfair statement; Sherlock had been of a great deal of use to the Commonwealth, having solved three terrorist incidents to date and having prevented eight more, at last count. Which didn't make him any more predictable (although Mycroft did have high hopes for the effect Dr. Watson seemed to be having on him). "You make your point, Director Fury."

"We both know that once this box is open, it can't be closed. People with super-powers are out there already; all we can do is have a response plan." Fury sat back and drank deeply from the beer.

Mycroft sighed lightly. Unfortunately, it was true-and in fact, he'd come to that conclusion some time ago. Which was the real purpose of this meeting today, to discuss what they should do about it. "Perhaps so. But I trust you realize the threat such individuals represent?" Mutually assured destruction was bad enough-a necessary evil, one might say. But it worked in part because nuclear bombs were not alive. They were not apt to go off on their own initiative.

Fury looked at him levelly as he set down the beer. "And what exactly do you have in mind as a response to this 'threat'?"

In answer, Mycroft took a large envelope marked TOP SECRET and slid it accross the pockmarked wooden table to the director. Fury raised an eyebrow and undid the string around the button, and then took out the document inside. He began to read it, his face going from grave, to positively murderous. When he was finished, he all but threw the document at Mycroft, tossing it across the table and nearly hitting Mycroft's untouched beer. "Not happening," he said bluntly. "The Avengers are my team, not to mention good men and women."

Mycroft frowned slightly at the foolishness of the sentiment, to say nothing of the fact that he was rather curious by exactly what definition a spy and assassin could be called 'a good woman'. "Perhaps they are, but can you speak for every super-powered individual in your country?" It was true that Americans were rather more liberal than the British on matters of guns and the like, but surely Fury could see what a danger it would be to have so many people with such vast powers go unmonitored.

"You do realize that you're talking about the systematic violation of human rights?" Fury demanded. "No. Not now, and not ever." Fury snatched up his glass of beer, downed the rest, and set the glass down firmly. He drew out some money from a pocket and tossed it on the table. "I think we've exhausted the possibilities of this interview." He stood up, and for a moment, Mycroft could see in his posture the solider he had been. Perhaps he was wrong in thinking of Fury as being like Sherlock. Perhaps he was more like the good Dr. Watson.

Either way, Mycroft sighed, more audibly this time. He had not expected to convince the Director, but the attempt was necessary, and perhaps he would come around in time. He stood as well, picking up the document, putting it back in its folder, and offering it to Fury again. "Very well. But keep what I said in mind-and do try to keep the destruction on your side of the Atlantic. It does cause a great deal of paperwork."

Fury nearly sneered, but he took the folder and tucked it inside his coat, and strode out without saying good-bye. Mycroft waited until he had left to resume his seat, taking out his small black book and jotting down a few notes in it. Then, he took out his phone and dialed the agent code-named Anthea. "My dear, please arrange for a meeting with the Prime Minister. We have a great deal to discuss."


End file.
